


en français, or, Five times Mycroft was Late and One Time He was Early

by bigblueboxat221b



Series: After The Rain Comes The Sunshine [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: 5+1 Things, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bad Days, Butterfly Effect, Français | French, M/M, Mycroft-centric, mystrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-27
Updated: 2017-04-27
Packaged: 2018-10-24 13:57:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,808
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10743096
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bigblueboxat221b/pseuds/bigblueboxat221b
Summary: Mycroft's day has gone from bad to worse.Previously known as "After the Rain Comes the Sunshine, or, Five Times" etc. Now part of the "After the Rain Comes the Sunshine" series.





	en français, or, Five times Mycroft was Late and One Time He was Early

**Author's Note:**

> This took root and would not be shifted until I fleshed it out.  
> Points given for picking the Buffy reference.  
> Shout out to [George_Sand](http://archiveofourown.org/users/George_Sand/pseuds/George_Sand) \- her namesake gave me one of the French phrases here. Merci!  
> French translations at the end, courtesy of Hallmark and Google.

 

Five times Mycroft was late…

1.

It took Mycroft a few minutes after he woke to figure out what was different. He was in his own bed, the scent and feel of the bedding familiar. He felt oddly rested – his usual few hours of rest were sufficient but rarely did he feel quite this well in the morning. The light coming in through the window, however, was not what usually greeted him – and the noise of his alarm was conspicuously absent. His alarm should have woken him several hours before dawn as it did every morning. Startled, he scrambled out of bed, glancing at his clock. The flashing 12:00 told him what he’d already worked out – there had been a power outage and his alarm had not gone off. His phone told him he would be able to make it to the office in time for his first meeting if he hurried and some of his usual early morning routine was abandoned. The advantage of having such a long personal schedule early in the morning, he thought to himself as he made haste to the bathroom. His exercises, mediation and preview of the day would have to wai-“WOAH!” Mycroft let out a strangled yell as he belatedly realised the shower water was stone cold. Electric water heater, he scowled to himself, dressing rapidly in the same suit as the previous day. Shower at work, he revised his plan, and a shave, feeling the whiskers across his face. This was not a good start to his day, especially given the importance of the meetings he had planned. A smoothly run life was all about being prepared for any eventuality, Mycroft told himself confidently. Thankfully he had everything he would need at work to prepare.

 2.

Everything he would need, _if_ he could get to the office. His car had arrived, in the end, but the crawl at which they were forced to move through the swirling snow had made him later still. Fingers had drummed impatiently against the armrest at the delay. Mycroft finally alighted at the office, stepping carefully across the slippery ground towards the foyer. He was late, unshowered and unshaven, all of which made him feel less than presentable. His life was largely about image, and this was not the one he wished to present to – who was it he was meeting first? He’d missed his preview of the day, and the brooding in the car had erased all memory of his schedule. As he entered his outer office, Anthea raised one eyebrow at his appearance, her expression enough to convey her surprise and disapproval.

“The Indian Ambassador is waiting.” She said in a carefully neutral voice.

“I will need fifteen minutes.” Mycroft told her, fighting his own annoyance at the unprofessional sentence. Slamming his office door allowed some release of his frustration. Moving quickly, he showered and shaved, dressing in the suit he kept in his office, embarrassed at the haphazard manner in which he was starting his day. Taking another moment to draw his calm around himself, Mycroft headed out of his office and into the meeting room, where the Indian Ambassador awaited irritably. It took all his considerable powers of persuasion to smooth things over there, and by the time he was finished, Mycroft was exhausted and starving.

“I’ve shifted your morning meetings to later in the week,” Anthea told him as he approached. “Dawson is waiting with a car below.” Her tone became mildly disapproving as she continued, “You’ll need to hurry if you’re to be on time for lunch with the Prime Minister.”

Mycroft nodded, not stopping in at his office. Anthea would forward him the briefing notes to read on the way. Perhaps the day could be salvaged after all.

 3.

When would he learn? Optimism was to be avoided at all costs, Mycroft reminded himself crossly, picking through the slush. The car had become stuck, bogged where the road had partially collapsed, the hole hidden under the half melted snow. His bespoke shoes were ruined and in the rush he had left his umbrella at the office, so the sleet now falling had soaked his suit as well. Mycroft was shivering as he approached the Diogenes club, the wetness having plastered his shirt to his skin. He barely had to raise an eyebrow at the doorman before he moved inside, knowing a butler would be arranging his personal bathroom for him to shower and change as he made his way upstairs.

Although Mycroft moved quickly as possible, his trembling hands made undressing a slow and frustrating experience. He fought the impulse to hurry his shower, knowing the heat would take time to permeate his body. Finally he judged himself warm enough, though his fingers were clumsy with haste and frustration at the situation in which he found himself. With shaking hands Mycroft fixed his tie in a simple half-Windsor and buttoned his waistcoat. A quick glance in the mirror, smoothing down his suit jacket and Mycroft judged himself presentable. He picked up the phone in the corner, calling the meeting room to confirm his appointment.

“I’m sorry sir, The Prime Minister has taken a meeting with Westley Wyndham-Price in your absence, Mr. Holmes.” Mycroft placed the phone down without answering, his face flushing with a fierce rush of heat even in the privacy of his personal bathroom. Wyndham-Price was a notorious climber, ambitious and ruthless. It was likely he had heard of Mycroft’s trouble that morning and offered to step into the meeting for him. Mycroft ground his teeth in frustration. He would have preferred to have his work confidential, however the new protocols meant that at least two people were to be fully informed of each situation at all times, lest someone in Mycroft’s position disappear and be irreplaceable. He had reluctantly copied Wyndham-Price in on the Prime Minister’s situation for this reason, though now he was regretting it bitterly. There was nothing he could do right now – his appearance would disrupt the delicate balance of the meeting. For all his ruthlessness, Wyndham-Price was good at his job, Mycroft had to admit, and he would be subtly manipulating the Prime Minister with a flair close to Mycroft’s own.

With considerable effort, Mycroft prevented himself from grinding his teeth again in frustration. He might as well eat, given his lack of opportunity so far today. Tempted though he was to order exclusively from the dessert menu, Mycroft ordered a steak and vegetables, not even glancing at the dessert menu. Goodness knew his defences were low and he may not have been able to resist the temptation.

 4.

Once he had eaten, it occurred to Mycroft that his mobile phone, previously located in his suit pocket, would likely have been ruined. Checking on the off chance, Mycroft was relieved to see the screen light up. How fortunate, Mycroft thought, as he checked his messages. He frowned. Seven missed calls? He checked the number and, in a rare show of frustration, swore aloud. He called for a car before listening to the message in its entirety. It was as he expected. This would not be pleasant.

+++

“So nice of you to show up, brother.” Sherlock said, sarcasm dripping from every word. He had not moved as he spoke, slouched against the cinderblock wall of the jail cell. Mycroft sighed. As expected, then.

“What this time, Sherlock?” Mycroft asked.

“Case. Needed samples of the soil in that greenhouse.” Sherlock replied shortly.

Mycroft turned to the constable glowering at his brother, silently demanding a fully explanation of how Sherlock had landed himself in the outer London local jail.

“Mr. Holmes broke into a private garden, destroyed several priceless botanical samples and assaulted the gardener!” the constable explained hotly. Mycroft saw at a glance that Sherlock had made and shared deductions about the man, and that he resented the exposure of his predilection for ladies’ underwear.

“I jumped a frankly inadequate fence, entered the unlocked greenhouse and was thrown into the so called priceless samples by the gardener. It was self-defence.” Sherlock protested, though Mycroft could see that he knew this was a spurious argument. “The samples are not _priceless_ , she bought them on eBay.” He added petulantly, sinking further into the wall.

Mycroft rubbed one hand over his face, feeling that he’d missed a spot during his quick shave that morning. “My day has not gone to plan, Sherlock.” He said wearily.

Sherlock snorted, jumping up and walking over to the bars of the cell, sneering at his brother. “And yet, you managed to find time to justify your job and bully DI Trevalley into letting me go.”

Mycroft raised one eyebrow, then looked at the constable evenly. “Fetch the DI, please.” Despite the wording, his tone broached no argument.

The DI in question was newly promoted and had been blissfully unaware of the existence of the Holmes brothers until today. Right now he resentfully opened the cell, allowing Sherlock to saunter out without looking back.

“Make sure he doesn’t do it again, brother.” Sherlock threw at his brother.

Mycroft sighed. He looked at the DI. “Suffice to say, Detective Inspector, Sherlock is not subject to the same rules as others. Should you have any further interactions with him, please contact either myself or Detective Inspector Lestrade at Scotland Yard.” He handed a card to the man before striding out. Thankfully Sherlock was gone. That was one conversation Mycroft was pleased to have avoided today.

 5.

Checking his watch, Mycroft paused. He had planned on dropping in on John this afternoon, given Sherlock’s recent spate of lawbreaking. There was certainly a conversation to be had with the Army doctor.

As they moved slowly through the slick streets, Mycroft planned what he would say. John had the rare status as one of the very few people who was not intimidated by Mycroft. He’d used the full arsenal of skills in his repertoire to try and bend the Army doctor to his will, but he remained stubbornly unaffected. This did seem to be working well, given his brother’s tendency towards manipulation; John’s moral compass had effectively become Sherlock’s, and he had not had any major incidents since John had moved into Baker Street. No harm in ensuring the status quo remained unchanged, however.

Mycroft directed the driver to wait as he stepped carefully across the gutter, a little off balance without his umbrella. Pushing open the door, Mycroft paused, hearing one side of an argument. His heart sank as he recognised the voice. Without speaking to the receptionist, Mycroft opened the door to John’s examination room, the volume increasing as the door opened.

“…can’t keep pulling you out of this, Sherlock!” John was shouting. Mycroft entered and John barely looked at him, instead continuing to berate Sherlock, slumped down in one of the straight backed chairs looking sulky. “It would have taken one phone call and Greg would have met you there, but instead you had to run off and almost get yourself brained for the trouble.” He waved arms around, still ignoring Mycroft. The snub riled Mycroft, thought he bit his tongue. “I’m sure Mycroft will happily leave you to cool your heels in the next random jail cell, Sherlock, unless you start following at least some of the rules!” Finally, John looked at Mycroft. His planned speech was now redundant, Mycroft could see. All he was required to do was nod, reinforcing the words provided by John. Sherlock gave a sullen nod at John, whose nod in reply was satisfied. Returning his gaze to Sherlock, John spoke to Mycroft. “I don’t think we need you here right now, Mycroft.”

Stung, Mycroft opened his mouth, but the look John shot him made him snap it closed, his lips pressing together in disapproval. He turned to leave, having uttered not even a single word during his visit. Completely superfluous as it turned out, a little voice in his head taunted him. Sighing, Mycroft sank dejectedly into the back seat of his car.

“Where to, sir?” His driver asked.

“Home, please.” Mycroft replied. What a fiasco today had been, he thought wearily. His evening plans would be easily cancelled, given their solitary nature; he wanted nothing more than to climb into bed and wait for tomorrow.

 

 …and one time he was early.

For a moment, Mycroft stood on the street. His driver usually waited until he was inside before departing; this time Mycroft knocked on his window and bade him leave. Throughout the exchange Mycroft’s eyes did not leave the figure standing on his doorstep – surely he was dreaming, a cruel hoax from his tired brain. Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade looked like a schoolboy caught out stealing sweets, he thought absently.

“Can I help you?” Mycroft asked.

Lestrade grinned sheepishly. “You weren’t meant to be home yet.” He said, though there was no accusation in the tone. Holding up a pen and piece of paper, he explained, “I just wanted to leave you a note, see if you were okay,” At the confused look on Mycroft’s face, the DI added, “after dealing with Sherlock today. He was particularly difficult this morning, according to the DI from Chiswick who called me.”

Mycroft chuckled at that. “Sherlock was as he always is, Detective Inspector. Detective Inspector Trevalley will learn. He has been in his current position approximately three weeks.”

Lestrade had startled at the sound of Mycroft’s laughter, and now his grin broadened in amusement. “He certainly will.” For a moment, the two men stared at each other, before Lestrade spoke again. “Anyway, I’ll leave you to it.”

“To what?” Mycroft asked.

“Whatever it is you’ve got planned, I guess.” Lestrade responded awkwardly.

Mycroft hesitated, then asked, “I have a fine bottle of red wine planned, if you’d care to join me.” He held Lestrade’s gaze even as the moment stretched out, until, with a nod, he agreed. Lestrade stepped aside, allowing Mycroft to disengage his security and admit them to his home.

What on earth am I doing, Mycroft asked himself as they removed outer layers in the hall and he lead the way into the library. _À chaque fou plaît sa marotte,_ he thought wryly. His French tutor’s ‘proverbs for every occasion’ mentality had never really left Mycroft. He poured two glasses of wine, handing one to Lestrade.

“What should we toast to?” the rough voice broke into Mycroft’s thoughts, and he blinked.

“Being early.” Mycroft replied without thinking. He was rewarded with a lopsided grin, and both men sipped at the crimson liquid. Mycroft set his down and rubbed his hands together – equal parts nervous energy and cold fingers.

“Rough day?” Lestrade asked.

Mycroft was not accustomed to sharing details of his life, but he found himself telling the tale to Lestrade, who laughed and empathized and grimaced in the right places. Slowly, Mycroft relaxed, enjoying the warmth and easy company provided by the other man.

“And so I returned home early.” Mycroft finished, “finding you on my doorstep, Detective Inspector.” He was relaxed enough now to smile at Lestrade.

“It’s Greg,” he protested mildly, “and I hope it was a good surprise, finding me here after the day you've had.”

“ _Apres la pluie, le beau temps_.” Mycroft smiled, the French proverb coming easily to him. “Indeed.” Perhaps the day had not been a complete waste, he thought. Had he not been late to everything else today, he would have missed Greg entirely. Serendipity.

“That’s a very positive spin on it, you know.” Greg said, and Mycroft realised he’d spoken aloud. He shrugged self-consciously, knowing he had rather given away how pleased he was to have Greg’s company. As he thought, his eyes roamed over Greg’s face, finding the kind eyes at last and realising Greg had been doing the same to him. A thrill at the idea that just maybe…

“So you’re pleased I’m here, then?” Greg asked quietly.

Mycroft nodded, murmuring, “ _L'appétit vient en mangeant._ ”

After a long pause, Greg replied, “ _La verite est dans le vin_.” He raised his glass to Mycroft, who was looking at him with surprise and not a little trepidation. “With a name like Lestrade,” he put a thick French accent on his name, “do you really think I’d speak no French, Mycroft?”

“ _Bien sûr._ ” Mycroft replied, a small smile playing over his lips. They sat in the quiet for several moments, eyes connecting and drifting before returning again to roam across each other’s face. Finally, Mycroft took a deep breath, and said “ _Il n'y a qu'un bonheur dans la vie…_ ”

He watched as Lestrade listened, then understood, then carefully finished the proverb, “ _…c'est d’aimer et d’être aimé.”_

 _Quelle est la beauté du soleil_ , Mycroft thought.

“You really do need to stop doing that, you know,” Greg murmured against Mycroft’s lips, “however true it may be.”

**Author's Note:**

> Loose French translations:  
> À chaque fou plaît sa marotte. Every fool is pleased with his own folly.  
> Apres la pluie, le beau temps. After the rain comes the sunshine.  
> L'appétit vient en mangeant. The more you have, the more you want. (Lit: Appetite comes when eating)  
> La verite est dans le vin. Wine brings forth truth. (Lit: The truth is in the wine)  
> Bien sûr. Of course.  
> Il n'y a qu'un bonheur dans la vie / c'est d’aimer et d’être aimé. There is only one happiness in life / it is to love and be loved. – George Sand  
> Quelle est la beauté du soleil. How glorious the sunshine is.


End file.
